A Place to Crash
by SimplyMe51
Summary: The missions may be back on, but Trevor still needs a place to sleep for the night. Philip and Trevor hang out in HQ. (Prompt fill from my tumblr.)


Philip was sitting by his computers, staring through the glass of his new turtle's enclosure, when Trevor entered their headquarters.

"You do some redecorating?" the other Traveler asked, approaching them and peering curiously into the tank. He knelt down opposite Philip and stared at Poppy.

It had been a long day, but Philip didn't mind the company. Still. "What happened to Protocol 5 indefinitely?" he asked.

"Can't Trevor and Philip be friends?"

Philip paused at the unexpected question. "You're at least a hundred years older than me."

"Well I'm young at heart," Trevor responded, still staring at the turtle.

Philip didn't need to think about his response to that. "Not so much," he replied skeptically.

"Look, I need a couch to crash on," Trevor admitted, finally looking at him.

There it was. Not that Philip didn't think Trevor was friendly, but they weren't really anything alike.

"That I believe. Mi casa es su casa." They talked for a little bit longer, but then Philip's computer dinged.

So much for Protocol 5 indefinitely.

* * *

Still – a new mission they might have had, but they didn't have to do anything until the next day. The team chatted a bit over the comms, went over their roles and where they needed to be at certain times, but there was no need for everyone to come in. Once everything was planned out, Trevor still needed a place to crash.

"You hungry?" the older man (teenager) asked him in the silence that followed the rest of the team disconnecting from their comms. "I never ate dinner."

Philip hadn't either. He nodded. "Sure, I could eat."

Trevor nodded as well, straightening up. "I'll go pick something up."

Spinning his chair around and grabbing a wad of cash from a drawer, Philip tossed it to his fellow Traveler. "No meat this time," he requested.

As Trevor agreed, leaving headquarters, Philip wondered if he acted the same around the others, had paid them visits and tried to be 'friends' with their covers. No, probably not. Trevor was friendly, sure, but he was dedicated to the mission and to maintaining their covers. MacLaren had a wife, Marcy lived with her social worker, and Carly had a son and an ex-boyfriend who could show up at any time. No, it was only Philip who was alone and only Philip who could be Trevor's friend within the confines of their covers. (And only Philip who had a couch available to crash on).

Not that Philip thought he was a last resort or only option for Trevor. He doubted the old man thought like that. And he genuinely did enjoy the man's company. Trevor had an optimistic zeal for life that the entire team appreciated. He was a calm and steady presence. Reliable. Kind. Wise. Even forgetting his decades of knowledge, the team wouldn't have been the same without him – wouldn't have been the same without any of them.

But while Philip liked Trevor and enjoyed his presence on the team, he was... kind of hard to relate to. What did you say to a man a hundred years older than you? Who had lived through and seen things Philip could only have read about in historic files?

Philip didn't know about the others, but despite their new faces, he never thought of his teammates as their covers, only as the people he'd trained with. Trevor looked like the youngest among them – not even legal age yet by current laws – but the way he acted made it impossible to forget his age. Always calm, mostly quiet. Speaking only when he had something to say. It was only the few times that he did get emotional that he forgot his cover and mentioned his age.

(The bombs were about to release a toxic gas and there wasn't supposed to be anyone else here, Philip had thought in a panic, on his knees with his hands raised.

"Please kid, run!" he'd heard Trevor shout from the balcony above him. "You need to run! Go, go!"

Philip had had only a moment to consider how strange those words must have sounded coming from 17-year-old Trevor Holden's mouth before the tanks blew.)

("I'm so sorry.")

Philip had always thought that Carly would take over if something had happened to MacLaren (though he tried to keep those thoughts away) and, while he still believed that to be true, their kidnapping had changed his perspective slightly. Trevor, and his calm acceptance of their circumstances, had changed his perspective.

He'd never panicked, instead walking them all through meditation exercises to keep them calm as well. He'd been the only one to get a rise out of their captors.

While Carly and MacLaren had gotten them out of it, Trevor had gotten them through it.

What did you say to a man like that?

The nice thing about Trevor though, Philip mused as the man returned, was that he didn't need you to say anything.

Philip cleared a small table in front of the couch and the two of them sat down again, much the way they had when Philip had been injured and Trevor had shown up only to keep him company.

That was the sort of thing Trevor did, Philip mused as he accepted the take-out box from his fellow Traveler. He wasn't so naïve to think that Carly and MacLaren didn't occasionally spend time together, but otherwise, Trevor was the only one who stretched outside the bounds of his cover – and mostly only to "hang out" with him.

"You'll like this," Trevor said, opening his own dish.

Philip looked at what Trevor had, then opened his own container. Salad – but not just the crisp, clean leaves that could be found in this century. The lettuce (was that spinach mixed in?) was covered with a variety of colorful foods and toppings, vegetables and fruits and what looked like breads even. He eagerly picked up his fork.

The variety of flavors was marvelous, the freshness of the food evident. Philip gave himself a moment to savor the first bite, then glanced toward Trevor, who was eating the same thing. "It's great," he admitted.

Trevor gave him one of his small, comfortable smiles, then bent over to pull a drink from the bag on the floor next to him. "Lemonade this time," he said, "but it's just as sweet as the soda."

Objectively, Philip knew all that added sugar was bad for him, knew that, if he had been in his previous body (his original one) that he wouldn't have been able to handle it. But this body was used to the amenities of the twenty-first, and, quite frankly, he liked the taste. (Besides, who knew if he'd live (or exist) long enough to suffer any ill effects from a poor diet).

He took the offered cup with a grin.

They ate mostly in silence, partly because they were both enjoying the food, partly because Philip really didn't know what to say to Trevor, and partly because that was the kind of people they both were – neither of them minded the quiet. And when they finished, Trevor held his hand out for Philip's empty take-out container, quickly and quietly cleaning up their wrappers and dishes without words between them.

As Trevor dumped the remnants of their meal in the trash, Philip stood. "You're welcome to stay as long as you need to," he offered. Protocol five still existed, sure, but Trevor was right; it wasn't like they weren't following orders.

Trevor offered Philip his small smile again. "Thanks," he said, the single word ringing with sincerity. He headed back toward Philip and pulled out the backpack he had brought with him originally. "I brought some stuff," he said simply, pulling out what looked like a twenty-first century gaming console.

"Video games?" Philip asked skeptically, picking up the sleek white box and studying it. What the hell, they could be fun. "Not any violent ones I hope."

While he didn't begrudge the twenty-first century for seeking out entertainment wherever they saw possible (entertainment was few and far between in the future), given what they did for a living, he wasn't much in the mood to watch even fictional characters suffer at the moment – and he had no doubt that 17-year-old Trevor Holden owned his fair share of violent video games.

Trevor pulled a game from his backpack, offering it to Philip. Setting down the console, he took it: the front picture was a wide array of strange characters in all shapes and colors, only a few of whom looked vaguely human.

"I found this one at the bottom of the pile," Trevor told him, "it's a racing game."

Philip grinned. "Well what are we waiting for then? Let's get started."

It took them no time at all to set up the console and adjust to the controls and Philip mused on the absolutely _normal_ picture they would have painted for anyone who saw them: just two young men from this century, sitting side by side on a couch and playing video games together.

Even though not much was said, Philip enjoyed himself. They threw obstacles at each other and rammed the other off the road, but only until they realized they could play on the same team, and work against the computer players.

They smiled and laughed and joked and elbowed each other in their enjoyment and Philip found himself wondering what else the twenty-first century had to offer. No doubt Trevor would be the first to discover those things too.

("We all knew assuming the lives of people from another century wasn't going to be a walk in the park," MacLaren had said at their first meeting.

Trevor's response had been immediate. "Yeah, actually you should try a walk in the park sometime. It's lovely.")

* * *

(Philip woke the next morning to a fruit smoothie and a fresh pile of multi-grain pancakes and no other sign that Trevor had ever been there (no doubt the man (kid) was already on his way to school). It was a thank you and silent appreciation and simple kindness all in one. He smiled, and wondered if Trevor would need a couch to crash on again that night.)


End file.
